


knock to the echoes as beggars for roses

by faorism



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-06
Updated: 2010-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:56:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faorism/pseuds/faorism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fuck me, he asks of you. This, unfortunately, is not the last of his requests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	knock to the echoes as beggars for roses

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rather old work that I've finally decided to revamp and archive here.

Fuck me, he asks of you. 

It is exactly three days, four hours and twenty-seven minutes until the Wolfsbane has to be ingested or the potion will not work properly. You keep track of every moment within those final seven days: Albus gave you the responsibility to care for the man's illness, and to disappoint—to put your students and coworkers at risk—cannot happen. You keep track every second and watch as his skin progressively flushes with the power of the oncoming full moon. 

You had kept track every moment, except during that night. And many nights after that. 

.

Love me, he asks of you. 

In his voice there is a peculiar inflexion of wolfish ruggedness and savagery: one that makes clear that the lust writhing through him leads him to this boldness. You nearly remove yourself from his scorching heat due to your disgust at the clearly irrational comment. The full moon fast approaches (Remus has but three hours until his body churns with his metamorphosis), and the beast has already reared its feral snout. He is losing his mind and clarity earlier than usual, and you should leave him; but instead, you only fuck him harder.

.

Love me instead of her, he asks of you.

He looks ridiculous. Standing naked there in front of the window, he clutchs onto the ledge with a strange aggression for this time of the month (there is still three weeks, one day, nineteen hours and forty-seven minutes until the absolute last minute that Wolfsbane can be ingested). His unruly hair tumbles around his face, and his frame is as starved as ever. Yet, he still manages to stand with determination. Despite his actions, however, his words ring only of softness—weakness: of a sorrow which you are sure the cause of.

.

Love me as if I were her—just love me, Severus, he asks of you.

You hit him then, and he falls to your chambers' floor with a harrowing thud. He lies still—shocked and spurned—willing to accept whatever else you have to offer him... although you have nothing. There is nothing for you to give him. You lost yourself to an obsession long ago, but... but you will not get to fuck him if he left you. You cannot have him leave you. You do not tell him this. Instead, you order him to remove his clothing, and as he does, you bite the fleshy wet of your inner cheek and count out the days, hours and minutes again.


End file.
